


The Care and Keeping of Snakes, for the Modern Human

by Arcafira



Series: Care and Keeping [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bubble Bath, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanart, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Stargazing, Wings, canon-typical alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 05:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcafira/pseuds/Arcafira
Summary: Crowley is shedding his skin—and not in the way a human-shaped body should. In spite of all his demonic wishing, his human vessel will not forget the serpent he became in the Fall and is determined to shed its skin according to its original form. When Aziraphale learns that Crowley hasn’t taken his full serpent form since their meeting on the wall of the Garden of Eden, he comforts Crowley through his transformation and helps him accept his repressed serpent form.Art by@prince_nephyon Twitter





	1. The Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art for this story is by the wonderful [Ineffable_Nephy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffable_Nephy/pseuds/Ineffable_Nephy) (Twitter: [@prince_nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)). Please see her work in Chapter 2: The Keeping.

During the Fall, Crowley hadn’t noticed the sting near his temple, so minor in comparison to the searing agony in his wings. The Almighty had marked his body as abject with a small, undisguisable symbol: a serpent coiled over on itself, slithering downwards for eternity—or as long as Crowley himself existed. It was not made of ink. This pigment was the tears of the Almighty Herself, turned dark by Her sense of betrayal.

Crowley traced his fingers over the mark now, as he often did when he was alone. It still burned sometimes, like venom beneath the skin. Skin which was drying and cracking yet again.

He scratched at it stubbornly, but it would take a while to peel away, and when it did—well. He looked from his reflection in the mirror to the closed bathroom door. He’d left Aziraphale reading in the bedroom. They’d never been together long enough for the angel to see him shed his skin. The shedding was always triggered by stress or anxiety—meaning, he always felt a shed coming on a week or so after seeing Aziraphale again—and he was self-conscious about it. A snake shedding their skin is a private thing, after all.

Shedding always started at the serpentine mark on his face. This is where the skin opened first, made him vulnerable. It would need a couple days to fully peel away. In the meantime, his skin would look dull and overexposed, like a human flaking after too much time in the elements. It was not a good look.

_Why now? _he wanted to hiss, but he knew why now. He was surprised, with all that blasted doomsday nonsense, that it hadn’t started sooner. After delivering the antichrist to those bumbling nuns, he’d had to hole himself up in his flat for two weeks. He’d shed _twice_ in a row. That had also resulted in a not-so-good look. Skin too tender and flushed. He’d had to stay in even longer.

To get out of his old skin, he needed a couple days at least. Maybe he could persuade Aziraphale to spend the day in his bookshop again. Yes, that was it. As much as he’d begged the angel to take some time off from the shop and stay at his place, he hoped it wouldn’t be suspicious to encourage him to go back. At least for a little while. Until he felt secure in his skin again.

One last glance at the mark and he returned to the bedroom where he found the angel curled up on the bed, book in hand and his brilliant white wings fluffed about him like a shawl. Crowley simply admired Aziraphale for a moment until he happened to raise his eyes from his book and their gazes met.

“How long have you been standing there?” said the angel, pushing his glasses up and rustling his wings fussily.

“Just long enough.”

He joined Aziraphale on the bed, and the angel lifted his wing so that Crowley could settle next to him. Unselfconsciously, he blanketed Crowley in his shawl of white feathers, too excited about his reading to think about the contact.

Aziraphale held up the old leather-bound book as if Crowley could distinguish it from all the other old leather-bound books the angel owned. “Now, this is a first edition—” he began but stopped as if seeing Crowley’s face for the first time. “You look . . . unwell.”

Crowley cocked his head so that Aziraphale, sitting to his right, couldn’t get as good a look at the mark, the peeling skin. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“As if—” The angel paused, frowned. “As if you’re recovering from a sunburn.”

“Not possible. What would sun do that hellfire can’t?” He tapped a finger on the leather cover. “You were going to tell me about your book?”

Aziraphale’s hesitance made Crowley wonder if he’d gone in for the wrong distraction. He’d told Aziraphale on many occasions, when the angel excitedly asked if he’d read this or that thing, that he wasn’t really a reader, that he didn’t have time for books. He’d originally intended the question as a diversion, but what if, now, with Hell off his back, he did have time for books? Crowley always valued them in the way one might distantly respect some piece of art they were uninvested in: as an artefact of some historical or social significance. Aziraphale, however, adored them, and he adored Aziraphale. So perhaps he could . . . ?

Aziraphale shifted his wing, restarted. “This is a signed first edition copy of—”

But just past the angel—he noticed now that Aziraphale’s wing had moved—Crowley spied a teetering stack of old books at the bedside. “Where’d those come from? Don’t remember having those.”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale grinned. “Miracled my favorites over from the bookshop for a bit of light reading tonight.”

Several of the tomes looked like they required two hands to hold. Crowley raised his eyebrows. “_Light_ reading?”

“Certainly.”

Crowley wouldn’t ask what his idea of a challenging read was. “I thought we were sleeping tonight?”

“Sleep really isn’t my thing, as you’d say.”

“You’d like it if you tried it.”

“And slumber through an entire century?”

“I’m not saying we _sleep _sleep. I’m saying like a human-sized nap. Eight hours. It’s nice. Relaxing.”

Aziraphale turned the book over in his hands as if weighing all its words against Crowley’s.

Crowley smirked. “Just let me have another successful temptation, angel.”

“If you put it that way . . .” Aziraphale leafed through the book. “Oh, fine. Alright. You win. You’ve tempted me to slothfulness. Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, although the S might have lingered on the air a bit longer than he intended. A hiss of delight.

*

Aziraphale woke to an empty bed. He was not used to sleeping and so had settled in a way that, hours later, he regretted. His outstretched wing, which had blanketed the now-absent Crowley, was painfully stiff. The other was numb because, well, he’d rolled onto it. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and found himself in a tangle of gray sheets. While he shrugged himself free, he shook out his wings, wincing at the dull pain in the one and the pins-and-needles sensation in the other.

Crowley was wrong. Aziraphale had tried sleeping and he did not like it. His bowtie was quite askew.

A crack of sunlight shined around the perimeter of the bedroom’s blackout curtains, but other than that, the room was dark. And no sign of where Crowley had gone.

Aziraphale stumbled into the stack of books he’d forgotten he’d piled at the bedside. They tumbled to the ground, covers flapping open, landing page-down. “Oh dear,” he said, hastening to pick them up before creases settled into the pages. “Crowley?” he called as he returned his books to their alphabetized stack. “Crowley?” He straightened his rumpled waistcoat and hurried from the room.

He’d searched the whole flat: the office with its ostentatious throne-as-office-chair, the kitchen with the dregs of potting soil still in the sink, down the hall with that statue of the wrestling angel and demon (either potentially distasteful or daring, Aziraphale still couldn’t decide). He found him in the last place he looked. Surrounded by his tall, sentinel-like plants and curled up under the window, Crowley practically glowed in the direct early morning sunlight. Aziraphale paused. He rarely saw Crowley so still and at peace. He found himself holding his breath as he leaned towards him.

Sometimes he felt a glimmer of the awe he’d first experienced when Crowley had slithered up next to him on the wall of Eden, transformed, and unfurled his wings. Of course, he’d never had the courage to tell Crowley that. Six-thousand years of working up the courage to say something made one feel like another century or two wasn't really that much longer. A desire for perfection—the perfect moment, the perfect place, the perfect wording—helped him justify the procrastination.

However, now that he was closer, he noticed again what he thought he’d seen last night. Crowley’s skin looked dull, papery. And the skin around the serpent mark on the side of his face was . . . peeling?

Politeness dictated that he not comment on the appearance of a person just awakened from sleep. So instead, he said, “My dear, why are you sleeping out here? And on concrete, no less.”

Crowley blinked open his golden eyes as if he hadn’t been sleeping at all and had just closed them for a moment of contemplation. He stared out at the city, squinted, and languidly rolled over to have a better look at Aziraphale. There was something distinctly _serpentine _in the slow arch of his back, the stretch of his limbs. His hand went to the mark to scratch, but he seemed to catch himself at the last moment and played it off by running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. This didn’t escape Aziraphale’s notice.

“You slept in your clothes,” Crowley said, looking Aziraphale up and down.

Aziraphale huffed. Well then! Some people did not adhere to the same propriety he himself extended. “What else would I sleep in?” With a snap of his fingers, the wrinkles were gone from his clothes and they settled properly on his form.

“Dunno.” Crowley gestured to his own black silk pajamas. “Could’ve miracled yourself something more suitable.”

“I didn’t think of it.”

Crowley shrugged.

“How long have you been out here?” Aziraphale said, remembering his original train of thought.

“Just since the sun came up. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Isn’t that uncomfortable? Napping on concrete?”

“Not especially.” He stood as if unused to his legs, as if he’d forgotten the rigidity of them. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you stop in and check on your bookshop?”

This isn’t what Aziraphale had expected Crowley to say. He had practically begged him to stay at his place, and now he was sending him away? And so suddenly.

“It’s not as if I have waiting customers.”

“Erm, well, keeping up appearances and such.”

“And what appearances are you keeping up, Crowley? You don’t even have the pretense of work.”

Crowley hissed something under his breath and slipped past Aziraphale and down the hall. He followed.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked Aziraphale.

The question stopped him. “No! Course not.” He gripped his angel’s shoulders reassuringly. “You’re perfect, wonderful.” The words tumbled out in a rush.

Aziraphale stared. The whites of Crowley’s eyes had been swallowed by the gold.

“I just—I’m sorry, angel. I need some time.”

“Time for what? Is Hell—”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why don’t I call you when I’m done?”

“Done with what? Crowley?”

Aziraphale stopped his heart from racing. Being corporated could feel quite unpleasant at times like this.

“I need to be alone,” Crowley said, each word punctuated with finality. “But I like having you here, angel. Please come back—if you want to—when I call you.”

“How long?” asked Aziraphale, withholding his other questions.

“Shouldn’t need longer than a week.”

“Can I help you in any way?”

Crowley hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

Aziraphale reached out to stroke Crowley’s cheek, but he backed away as if afraid of the angel. Aziraphale’s hand hovered in the sudden space between them.

“I’m sorry,” sighed Crowley.

*

Five mugs of tea, all varying temperatures—most of them cold—crowded Aziraphale’s desk in the back room of the bookshop. The angel paced, too occupied by thoughts of Crowley to notice that the shop had become even dustier in his weeklong absence. Uncomfortably warm from all the pacing, he shrugged out of his coat. Just as he was hanging it over the coat rack, however, he noticed something flutter from the shoulder and down to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it from the dusty wood floor. Part of it crumbled away in his hands like aged paper. He held it up to the dying evening light and wondered at the texture and pattern. It reminded him of something.

Recognition came slowly, then settled on him like a weight. Dried snakeskin. Where Crowley had held him. But he didn’t understand. He hadn’t seen Crowley in his full serpent form since . . . He thought. When they met. On the wall of the Garden of Eden.

He’d already picked up the phone and half dialed Crowley’s number when he remembered why he was at the bookshop and not with Crowley in the first place. He returned the phone. Picked it up again. Then gingerly set the snakeskin next to the phone and stared at it. He picked up the phone again. If Crowley didn’t want to answer, he could leave a message, yes? That couldn’t be too intrusive. He’d keep the message short.

*

Mere hours had passed since Aziraphale left, and the phone was already ringing. Crowley hovered nearby, waiting to hear his angel’s voice. It had to be him. Who else would call?

Aziraphale _was_ comforting. And Crowley _did_ want him around. He just didn’t want him around.

Or, more accurately, he didn’t want Aziraphale to see him like this, his corporation all vulnerable and disgusting because of the curse of the Fall. Even if he repressed his serpent form, as he had since nearly the beginning of time, he couldn’t avoid the symptoms of it. The Almighty had made sure he’d never forget his disobedience to Her. He worried that, in the state he was in, the angel’s presence would only remind him of how much he’d fallen, how unlike they were.

His voicemail message played, and Crowley was struck by the strangeness of his own recorded voice. So much confidence and sass in this past version of himself. All he wanted to do right now was curl up in a dark hidden place and sleep for another century. That’d be a way to avoid all this shedding and feelings nonsense. Or indulge in extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Yes, he’d do that. It’s not like he could get alcohol poisoning. Or he did once, back in the fourteenth century—and he’d probably been so drunk precisely _because _he’d had to exist in the fourteenth century and it was all dragging on a bit long—but when you’re a demon, it’s no big inconvenience to remedy simple poisoning.

The answering machine beeped. _So sorry to bother you, dear. I don’t mean to intrude_, Aziraphale began, then paused and stammered. _I’ve found something odd here. It’s, ah, snakeskin, I think. I think I’m calling because— Well, I’m not sure what I mean to ask. I suppose I’m confused. And concerned. You seemed quite unwell. You’d tell me if there was any way I could help, yes? Um, well, goodbye._

“Shit,” he hissed. He’d tried to avoid touching Aziraphale. That’s part of the reason why he’d gotten up earlier, because he didn’t want the angel to notice the sections of his skin separating and peeling away. But then Aziraphale had gone and asked if _he _was the one who’d done something wrong, and Crowley hadn’t even thought about himself in his rush to reassure Aziraphale. The angel was persistent, he knew. If Crowley didn’t give him an answer, he’d piece it together just like he had with the witch’s prophecy and the antichrist kid.

Crowley sullenly scratched at the mark on his face. Yes, extraordinary amounts of alcohol were in order.

He kept his liquor cabinet well stocked. Several vintages he’d planned to share with Aziraphale neatly lined the front of one shelf. He tried not to look at those. What he needed now was something bitter and dry, preferably with a high alcohol content. He didn’t bother with a glass. This wasn’t a pretend-you’re-all-well-and-civilized situation. With a snap of his fingers, he cursed the wine to never run out, no matter how much he drank.

Stalking the flat in circles, bottle in hand, he hissed half-formed thoughts aloud, berating himself for not waiting to invite Aziraphale over until after the inevitable stress-induced shedding. Half an hour later, more drunk and less coordinated, he yelled his thoughts a bit too loudly at the plants as if they could answer. Some shivered, but that was the most he got out of them. He paced back to his answering machine and played Aziraphale’s message. _You’d tell me if there was any way I could help, yes? _He rewound the tape and played it again. _You’d tell me if there was any way I could help yes?_ He clicked the machine off, his hand a bit too heavy on the button.

“Y’know, God,” he slurred, raising his bottle to the ceiling. “Aziraphale’s a good angel, the greatest angel You ever made.” He took a long drink, sloshing wine down his chin and onto his shirt. He didn’t clean it up, let the stain soak in. “I don’t talk to You a lot. I don’t think You really want to hear from me. I mean, You threw me out of Heaven and all that. That was a long time ago. D’you remember— Do You remember my old name, God? Do You remember the name You gave me? Well I renamed myself, so maybe You don’t recognize me.” He gripped the edge of the desk and slid down to the floor. His legs were feeling funny, and he didn’t want to spill the wine. Who knew what would happen if you spilled a bottomless bottle of wine? he wondered. Probably flood the whole flat. Drown in wine. He thought this might be funny, a demon drowning in wine—what a way to be discorporated—but he groped back to his original thought.

“Anyways,” he hiss-slurred, “this is Crowley, formerly . . .” He tried to remember his ethereal name through the haze of alcohol. “Blast it; this is Crowley. And I jus’ wanted to ask if you were going to let me have your best angel. He really is the best angel. Aziraphale. Is that part of Your plan, God? If I don’t deserve You, will You let me deserve him?”

*

Aziraphale, having not heard anything from Crowley and needing to do something with his worry, was at the closest pet store as soon as it opened. The smell inside the shop reminded him a bit of the ark. Dreadful business, that whole thing. A real shame about the unicorns. And how Crowley—

“Need any help, sir?” came a polite voice at his side.

“Oh!” Misty-eyed, he looked up from a display of feline dewormers he’d zoned out in front of. A short, baby-faced human with a nametag that read Sam stood waiting for his reply. Again, he stammered. “I have questions about serpents—caring for them, specifically.”

“Snakes? Let’s try aisle 7?”

“Ah, yes, snakes,” said Aziraphale, following the sales associate.

“Now did you adopt a snake from here, sir?”

“No, um, I have a friend who’s sick—whose snake is sick. And they couldn’t come out, so I’m here on their behalf.”

“What kind of snake, sir? What’s wrong with it?” asked Sam, stopping in front of a row of terrariums. A snake with orange and yellow patterned scales wound around a branch, turned its red eyes on Aziraphale, and stuck out its tongue.

“I’m not sure,” said Aziraphale. “Some very old, very large snake, you understand. Looks practically prehistoric.” He laughed nervously. The sales associate stared. Aziraphale pushed on. “My friend—my friend’s snake—is shedding their skin for the first time and seems quite distressed about it. The snake seems distressed, I mean, and my friend is wondering how best to help them.”

“Nothing to worry about there,” said Sam, smiling again. “Common worry among first-time snake owners, but it’s natural for snakes to want to withdraw while they’re shedding. They feel vulnerable.”

The red-eyed snake slithered off its branch and up to the glass to better stare at Aziraphale. He thought some people might be unnerved by this, but he was used to Crowley’s unblinking stare and found the curious snake rather endearing.

“What you’ll want to do,” continued Sam, “is provide humidity in the environment as well as a large bowl of water for the snake to dip into if it feels the need. Providing rough objects like rocks or bark for the snake to rub against can also help with shedding. But keep any handling to a minimum.”

“Do you perhaps have any books I could read on the subject? Or something to take to my friend when I see them again?” asked Aziraphale.

Sam directed him to a small selection of thin books with glossy photos of vibrant snakes on the cover. Aziraphale picked the one that looked largest and most comprehensive: _The Care and Keeping of Snakes, for the Modern Human_. He’d never owned a book on pet care, and this would probably be his only one. While he liked animals—all God’s creatures great and small—he did not like the thought of animal smells perfuming his bookshop or little creatures potentially damaging items in his collection. There was nowhere else to keep a pet.

“And here’s the kind of supplies I was talking about,” said Sam, pointing out neatly arranged rows of small rocks and branches.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale politely.

The little orange snake was watching him again.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

“You’ve been a great help, thank you,” said Aziraphale with a little nod of his head. “I’ll probably just get the book.”

*

After a half hour back at his shop, Aziraphale had finished the book. He looked up from his desk at the sound of someone trying the door. It was locked. They eventually went away. Aziraphale turned back to the beginning of the book and started reading again, not because he hadn’t memorized everything on the first read but simply to give himself something to do instead of worrying about Crowley. Surely he’d listened to the message he’d left on the answering machine by now? He must know that Aziraphale would drop everything to go to him. He would understand that, wouldn’t he? Crowley had always shown up for him. Aziraphale wanted to do the same.

The phone rang, and Aziraphale nearly toppled out of his chair. Even six-thousand years later, he had to check the instinct to snap out his wings for balance. His shaking hands knocked the phone from its cradle before he could put it to his ear properly.

“Hello?” he answered, breathless.

*

Crowley was badly hungover, even by his own standards. He didn’t know how much time had passed. The sun through the window was bright, which felt good on his skin but was murder to his aching head. He threw a hand over his eyes, groaned, and rolled over. Of course, he could cure the hangover with a wave of his hand, but this time, he didn’t. There was something deliciously dramatic about the wallowing. After everything, he deserved the time alone to wallow in the discomfort he’d created for himself. At least it was a distraction from the hideous shedding. His old skin, all rough and dry, was catching uncomfortably on his clothes.

He crawled out of the sunlight and groaned again. He didn’t even remember where he’d put the wine bottle. At least he wasn’t sitting in a puddle of wine, so he supposed he hadn’t spilled it.

Aziraphale’s message came back to him. _You’d tell me if there was any way I could help, yes?_

“Fine,” he groaned too emphatically. His own voice hurt his head. He waved the hangover away. “Fine, angel.”

Now with the hangover gone and his eyes properly open, he noticed how clouded his vision was, as if looking through fog. “Of course. Add this to the list,” he cried, throwing up his hands. He hauled himself to his feet—despite curing the hangover, his limbs still felt heavy—and made his way to the bathroom to get a look in the mirror. His face was his own, albeit more tired-looking than usual, but the gold of his eyes had been clouded over with a milky white film. The transparent scales over his eyes were preparing to shed.

What a good look.

It’s not as if he hadn’t tried to miracle away the old skin. For the first couple centuries, he’d tried it every time without any luck. Eventually, he chalked it up as yet another curse that came with the Fall. That didn’t mean that he didn’t sometimes attempt the miracle route again out of frustration.

He splashed his face with water, snapped the wine stain out of his shirt, and went for his cell. His finger hovered over Aziraphale’s number.

Wait. He tried to remember what he had done while he was drunk. He remembered playing the angel’s message over and over. He even remembered talking to someone. A hiss. Satan, he hoped he hadn’t drunk-dialed Aziraphale. But no, that didn’t seem right. More likely that he’d just rambled on to himself as usual, unheard. 


	2. The Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art for this story is by the wonderful [Ineffable_Nephy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffable_Nephy/pseuds/Ineffable_Nephy) (Twitter: [@prince_nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)).

No one answered Aziraphale’s first hello. “Hello?” he said again, louder.

“Yeah, it’s me, angel.” Crowley’s voice through the receiver was smooth, casual.

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale breathed, putting a hand to his chest. He bid his vessel to calm down again with all its heartbeating.

Crowley grumbled. “I’ll thank Her when She deigns to reverse whatever the Heaven it is She’s done to me.”

“What do you mean? What’s the Almighty done?”

“Other than toss me out of Heaven like celestial garbage?”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale never had anything good to say in response to this sort of thing. He felt he’d done enough questioning of Her Plan recently, but when the Plan concerned Crowley, his faith always came short.

“Anyway, I wasn’t calling to talk about Her. I was calling to invite you back.”

Aziraphale’s chest lightened hopefully, but he was hesitant to let his voice betray him. “So soon?”

“Well, I mean, only if you want, of course.”

Crowley’s cool was audibly breaking down, and Aziraphale was surprised at how this made him smile. He rested his hand on the cover of _The Care and Keeping of Snakes _and glanced around at the supplies he’d gathered that day. “Of course,” he repeated, smiling.

Silence for a moment on Crowley’s end. “I’d come pick you up, but going out is a bit of a problem right now. Otherwise, you know I’d be happy to offer.”

“I think I’ll manage,” said Aziraphale. “I’m bringing over a couple things with me this time.”

“Need some substantial reading to chew on after you’ve gone through the light reading you left here?”

“I did leave those there, didn’t I? No, this time, I’m bringing things for you.”

*

The door to Crowley’s flat unlocked and swung open, but there was no Crowley on the other side to greet Aziraphale. He shifted the box in his arms and entered the flat. The door shut with a click behind him.

“In here, angel,” Crowley called. Aziraphale followed the voice to the sun-warmed office to find Crowley sitting in his throne, his back to Aziraphale.

“I come bearing gifts and knowledge,” Aziraphale announced cheerily. He shuffled around to the desk to set the box down—and stopped, frozen, when Crowley turned his gaze on him.

“That bad?” said Crowley, his clouded eyes unwavering in their focus on Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale sensed that Crowley was measuring his reaction to the dull, cracking skin and hazy eyes. He wondered if Crowley could clearly see with eyes so clouded over. And the closer Aziraphale observed him, the more he noticed that the skin peeling away from Crowley’s body had the texture of snakeskin. His body was trying so hard to remind Crowley of the truth of himself.

“Not bad at all,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley wasn’t done measuring. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“You are a serpent, after all. It’s not the strangest thing that could happen to you.”

He worried he’d said something wrong. He was trying very hard to not make a big deal of things. But Crowley was obviously searching for something that he was not providing.

“Does it hurt?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not really. I’m used to it, of course. Just looks hideous.” He eyed the box in Aziraphale’s arms. “What’d you bring?”

He finally set down the box on the desk. “A humidifier, a heated blanket, and—” Aziraphale triumphantly held up _Care and Keeping_.

Crowley squinted, then raised an eyebrow. “You going to put me in a terrarium?”

“Goodness, no,” huffed the angel. “I did some reading about snakes—to try and understand how best to help, you understand. As I said in my message— Did you get my message?” He didn’t mean to glance at the answering machine on the corner of the desk, but Crowley caught him looking, and then they were both staring at the thing, avoiding each other’s gaze.

“I did,” mumbled Crowley eventually.

Guilting Crowley hadn’t been his intention. “I only bring it up because I mentioned finding the snakeskin, you remember. It was on my coat where you’d touched me. That and the fact that you wanted me to leave so suddenly and stay away pieced things together, I guess you could say. And now I’m just happy you called.”

Crowley seemed to look just past him. “Really, angel?”

“Certainly. Of course.” Crowley didn’t offer anything else, so Aziraphale pushed forward. “The book recommended a couple things to help with shedding if you want to try those.”

Crowley made a noise in his throat by way of response. After six thousand years’ worth of conversations with the demon, Aziraphale was used to this. Crowley had a variety of wordless noises that could mean anything as simple as _no_or, if given more emotion, _not a bloody chance in Heaven_. Some groans stood in for an endearing yet frustrated _really, angel?_ while others communicated entire sentences.

Interpreting Crowley was an art. Aziraphale liked to sometimes joke that he could talk to snakes. In response, Crowley had hissed, which essentially meant, _Don't get carried away with yourself. You can talk to _one_ snake._

Presently, the noise Crowley had made in his throat communicated grudging assent, and Aziraphale excitedly shared his findings. “Water seems to be the key to shedding gracefully,” he explained. “For pet snakes, it’s recommended to provide a bowl of water for them to soak in as well as rough textures in the enclosure to help them shed their skin. So I thought—have you ever used your bathtub?”

“Haven’t really found it necessary. Kind of time consuming when you can miracle yourself clean.” He paused. “Wait, d’you bathe?”

“I only asked because you sleep, so I thought you might also . . .”

“And you eat human food.”

“I see your point, but that doesn’t change the fact that you should try to take care of yourself through this.”

“Fine. I’ll try whatever you think might help, angel.”

Outside of gaining millennia’s worth of philosophical and theoretical knowledge, Aziraphale’s obsessive hobby of collecting and rereading books rarely resulted in something he could practically apply in his daily life. He was excited to put what he’d learned to work in service of someone he loved. The thought made his vessel feel a bit jittery again. Crowley followed him morosely about the flat, observing Aziraphale setting out all the things he’d brought. He unfolded the heated blanket neatly at the foot of the bed, fetched water from the kitchen, and filled and plugged in the humidifier. The machine started pleasantly puffing away. Crowley waved a hand through the steam.

“I’ll run the bath,” said Aziraphale, straightening his coat unnecessarily.

In theory, Aziraphale knew how this worked but had never done it before. He had seen films and advertisements in which humans relaxed in a bath. It did look quite appealing. Maybe he’d have to try it. He was surprised that Crowley, with all his knowledge of the world and humanity, had not tried something so simple. Strangely, for beings who lived eternally and had all the time in the world, especially now that the apocalypse had been averted, bathing seemed oddly tedious.

Aziraphale kneeled beside the bathtub and stoppered it when the water ran warm. The soap he added to the stream swirled and bubbled. He’d chosen a gentle, unscented soap because he didn’t know what Crowley would like and didn’t want to further aggravate his skin. In the empty soap dish, he placed a pumice stone. The white noise of the falling water might have been soothing if not for the unreadable glances Crowley cast him. He swished his hand idly through the filling tub, concentrating on the warmth of the water and the fizz of the bubbles. Again, his chest ached. He was so good at sensing love, but when it came to confessing his own, words evaporated, and he had only looks and gestures. Nothing seemed appropriately deep enough.

The bath was full. He stopped the tap, and suddenly they were engulfed in silence. Crowley paused behind Aziraphale who remained kneeling by the tub. He didn’t turn. The sound of silk slipping against silk settled in his ears as Crowley shed his clothes. He dropped them next to Aziraphale in a crumpled pile of black fabric. It seemed a little careless, perhaps even crude, to let such fine silks wrinkle on the bathroom floor, but Aziraphale said nothing about it. Crowley stepped into the bathwater without a splash and settled so that only his head and shoulders were above the bubbles. When Aziraphale finally chanced a glance at him, his face was still an impassive mask.

“Call if you need me,” said the angel, readying to stand.

But then Crowley said, “Why don’t you join?”

Aziraphale stilled. Crowley’s suggestion came with no wry smirk or quirk of his eyebrow. The only movement in the room for a couple heartbeats was the steam rising off the water. Crowley put a hand to Aziraphale’s bowtie, eyed it thoughtfully, then slipped it loose. Aziraphale let him tug it free of his collar and toss it onto the pile of black silk. Again, they watched each other. It was Aziraphale’s turn to say something, do something, but he couldn’t move.

A wave of realization crossed Crowley’s features. “Too fast?” he asked gently.

Aziraphale swallowed. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, his shirt, his pants, and abandoned everything in a pile next to Crowley’s clothes. The water was just on the verge of being painfully hot, but he submerged his vessel anyway. Enough room remained that they could just barely avoid touching each other if they wanted. As the water settled again, it lapped deliciously against his skin, and his thoughts came tumbling out of his mouth before he could properly consider them.

“You know, this is only the second time I’ve been in a bathtub. The first time with that holy water was unpleasantly cold.”

A grin broke Crowley’s emotionless façade. “That’s really what you’re thinking right now?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

Crowley’s face wrinkled in an effort to stifle his laughter. “You are, in fact, a bastard.”

Aziraphale’s face was hot. To distract himself, he retrieved the pumice stone from where he’d set it beside the bath. “Would you be willing to try this?” he asked.

“It’s a rock?”

“Humans use it to remove dead skin. They’re quite popular, I found.”

Crowley held out his arm in offering, and Aziraphale took his hand. The demon tugged him gently. “You can come closer if you want. I won’t bite.” Side by side now, Aziraphale massaged the stone in circles against Crowley’s shoulder. The skin that had started to loosen was scaly and tough, not at all like the human skin growing just beneath.

Art by [Nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)

“It would probably be easiest to shed your skin in your original form,” suggested Aziraphale.

“That’s just the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“My original form.” Crowley watched him thoughtfully, waiting.

“I don’t understand . . .” Aziraphale trailed off. Then, “Have you really not taken your original form since Eden?”

Crowley nodded slowly.

The correct question evaded Aziraphale, so he said only, “Why?”

“The Almighty Herself cursed that form. And why would anyone want to inhabit a cursed form? It reminds me so much of how I’m not like you.”

Again, several responses rose and dissipated in Aziraphale’s mind. Some were the knee-jerk kind, well-meaning but wrong: _You’re not cursed. We’re not so different_. Another didn’t address the problem: _You’re just as lovely as a serpent_. He said, “You don’t have to be ethereal to be worthy.”

“Worthy of what, angel?”

What a corner he’d backed himself into. He let the pumice stone float on the water between them. “I mean, you know, worthwhile.”

“Hm.”

“I did want to be here with you, didn’t I? I called to check in on you.”

“And you bought me a humidifier.”

“I did.”

“And a warm blanket.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m waiting to see where you’ve hidden the terrarium you plan to keep me in.” He was smirking now.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and retrieved the floating stone. “Would you like me to get your back as well?”

Crowley hesitated, then, smooth as a water snake, turned so that his back was to Aziraphale. And now it was Aziraphale’s turn to hesitate. He hadn’t watched Crowley get into the bath and so hadn’t noticed the swathes of scar tissue right where his wings would be. He wanted to believe the irregular skin was also a result of the shedding, but its smoothness was in direct contrast to the snakeskin.

“Something wrong?” asked Crowley.

His eyes stung with tears. Oh, Crowley knew what was wrong. Of course he did. Aziraphale put his shaking hands against Crowley’s back, one over each of the long scars. Crowley tensed for a moment under Aziraphale’s touch.

“My wings caught fire when I Fell. The white ones I was created with completely burned away. And where feathers met skin, well, you see what happened. After some time in Hell, they started to regenerate. Painfully long process, regrowing wings; and the color was never the same.”

An ethereal tear splashed into the bathwater. As if he’d sensed the angel’s distress, Crowley glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were full gold, the color just barely visible through the hazy film.

“Do they hurt? Do the new wings hurt?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not at all. They’re almost as numb as the scar tissue.”

Somehow, this was worse.

“What if— Would a miracle—”

Crowley turned back to him with a splash. “Don’t try it, angel. Don’t try and miracle away the Almighty’s work. Especially for the sake of a demon. Who knows what would happen to you.” He hauled himself out of the bath, splashing an unseemly amount of water onto the floor and their clothes. With an agitated flick of the wrist, he miracled himself dry and was gone.

The water had cooled down to a comfortably warm temperature but had ceased to be soothing. Aziraphale sighed and stretched out so that the water came up to his chin. When he was done ruminating, the bath had gone cold.

*

The cursed bottle of wine was nestled in a planter all along, which meant he must have gone back to ramble to the plants before passing out the night before. He retrieved it and took a sip. Still good. He took a longer drink. He had no intention of getting drunk again but wanted to feel the fuzzy warmth of the alcohol in his stomach.

Night had settled in. Crowley usually didn’t pay much attention to the sky—and not for the usual human reasons of being too busy to pause and enjoy familiar beauty, or even because light pollution made that appreciation difficult. He loved the features of the sky; he had helped create them, after all. But watching the sky too long reminded him of a question he’d never have an answer to: what did the Almighty, the ultimate creator, think of his smaller creations? Even after She’d decided that he was unworthy of Her love, She’d kept his stars, his nebula.

Another long drink. What ridiculous pining.

Crowley summoned his wings, bringing them into the physical plane of existence with the rest of his body. The stinging pain that lay dormant in the serpentine mark flared to life for a couple seconds, then died again. A grim reminder of the pain of the Fall. Most demons didn’t care to manifest their wings. All had their own baggage behind that decision. But tonight, Crowley had the impulse to stretch his wings and feel the night air whistling through his feathers. His wings had lost much of their sensitivity, but the memory of what he could feel before the Fall hadn’t faded in all his long existence. Maybe the strength of his imagination could make up for what reality lacked. He hadn’t flown in centuries, but right now, the weight of existing in a body felt like too much. He wanted to be unburdened. He wanted to fly up to his stars.

He wanted to take his angel with him.

“Azira—” he started to call and stopped himself.

Crowley felt the most evil when he disappointed or hurt Aziraphale.

The angel’s hands had been so warm against the old wounds. He cared so much, and _that’s _why he’d started to say that thing that’d frightened Crowley so much.

He returned to the bathroom and found the angel holding up their soggy clothes as if lost as to what he should do with them. Crowley waved them dry.

“Oh. Thanks,” said Aziraphale, smiling tentatively.

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, but Aziraphale was staring at Crowley’s wings. “Angel, I’m saying sorry for the second time in a week.”

Aziraphale blinked. “It’s quite alright, my dear. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

“No, don’t you be sorry. _I’m _apologizing.”

“Then I accept your apology.”

A pause. Then Crowley said, “Want to get out for a bit?”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Aziraphale, pulling on a pair of tartan socks.

“Stargazing.”

*

The starry glimmer of the city lights spread out beneath them. Aziraphale looked out over the edge of the building’s rooftop as if merely getting too close might discorporate him. “I don’t think we’ll be able to see much from here,” he said without even looking up.

Cool night wind picked at their coats. Aziraphale drew his closer, buttoned it. Crowley reached up with both hands as if he could grasp the dark, opening himself to the night.

“That’s why we’re going up there,” he said, gesturing to the sky.

Aziraphale looked up for the first time. “The humans would see us.”

“Only if you want them to.” Crowley stretched his wings. “Come on, angel. We’ve never been flying together. The stars I created are still there. I Fell, but my stars didn’t. Let’s fly to them. Just to have a look. Remember old times, you know.”

They didn’t share the same old times, as far as Aziraphale knew. “Did I know you before…?” He trailed off.

“I was Sariel,” he said as if Aziraphale had telephoned him to ask for his number.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember anyone by that name,” Aziraphale said, voice growing smaller as he went on. Aziraphale had never forgotten something this big before; he would remember if he’d known Crowley before the Fall. Not that every angel knew all angels with the same degree of familiarity, but he would have at least known _of _a Sariel. Now that he thought of it, though—and for some reason he’d never given it much thought—he didn’t know who _any _of the demons had been as angels before the Fall. The more he tried to access that information, the hazier it became.

Had Crowley really thought all these years that Aziraphale remembered him before he was even Crawly?

“The Almighty entrusted me with making entire nebulas. How could you forget that?”

“I didn’t—I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.” The angel felt unsettled in his vessel, not quite as if he might discorporate but as if he might step over into some gray unknown and become not-himself. He stopped making the effort to recall an ethereal version of Crowley. Something—someone?—demanded with the imperative strength of the Almighty Herself that he stop.

“You alright, angel?” asked Crowley, brows furrowed above his dark glasses.

Only with Crowley’s question did he realize he was bent over, hand clutching his chest as if holding tight to something he just realized could be lost. “Just tickety-boo,” he breathed.

“Can I…?” Crowley reached for him questioningly, and Aziraphale let the demon steady him. His black wings encircled them, shielding them from the wind and city lights, a feathery cocoon only the stars could look in on.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale shakily. “I can see them a bit better now. The bright ones, anyway.” He nodded at the stars, but Crowley was staring at him. His hands came to rest on Aziraphale’s cheeks, a silent _look at me_. The angel obliged. However, in the small light, he could only see himself reflected in Crowley’s glasses. Aziraphale took them away from Crowley’s face, revealing gold eyes that, even while clouded, didn’t strike him as any less miraculous than the first time he’d seen them.

“I love—”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“—your eyes. They’re simply gorgeous.”

Crowley smirked good-naturedly. “Yours are pretty nice too.”

Aziraphale manifested his wings and brushed them gently against Crowley’s. Under the stars of a fallen angel, they kissed.

*

Drunk off the kiss and wine—but mostly the kiss—Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hand and dashed for the edge of the rooftop, tugging the angel along after him. “Jump with me!” he called back, readying his wings.

Aziraphale spluttered some noise of protest but didn’t try to stop him, and Crowley howled, long and joyous. For the moment, he’d forgotten that he was cursed and Fallen. He didn’t think about his skin separating from itself. There was only Aziraphale’s body and his body and the wind.

His foot was on the roof’s edge. He dropped Aziraphale’s hand at the last moment, trusting that he’d follow, and stretched his wings to their full span. He pushed away from the certainty of the earth and into the embrace of the wind.

In the seconds before their wings caught the air, they fell together in a heady swoop. Then, wingtips brushing on a downward stroke, they rose together, leaving behind the grumble of vehicle engines and murmur of pedestrians’ conversations. They rose until they made the city small and distant, until it was completely obscured by a blanket of cloud, until they emerged into their own starry world.

If any human had looked up before they disappeared, they would have seen two angels.

Silence between them was easy. Without thinking, they matched each other wingbeat for wingbeat, moving as one unit. Sometimes they’d bank and shadow each other. Other times, they glided side by side, reassured by the briefest brush of the other’s wing.

“Which ones are yours?” Aziraphale asked eventually.

Even after all this time and across so much distance, his stars pulled at him, and he intuitively pivoted to face them. “There,” he said, pointing because he knew they were there, could sense them despite barely being able to see them. He took off his glasses and tucked them away in his coat pocket, but the clouded eyescales still obscured his view.

Aziraphale squinted. “Would you describe them to me?”

And Crowley did, starting from the beginning. He talked as if the sun would never rise, as if they had an eternity’s worth of clear darkness in order to admire the stars. The ones that tugged at his awareness the most, however, were the stars of the Carina Nebula to the south. One couldn’t see them in the northern hemisphere, and so it had been literal ages since he’d observed them in-person. Rather, he sensed them as a dreamlike blur on the periphery of his awareness, so used to it that he didn’t think much of the bond until now. Most of this nebula had been his work and so he was connected to it above all the others.

He wanted to show it to Aziraphale and tell him the story of its creation.

Intention was enough to change the sky. Crowley remembered how, before the Fall, he could shift and compress space, matter, and time. Controlling time was still an intuitive, if fleeting, ability. And altering time altered space which altered matter. He could draw the Carina Nebula close—or take them to it. He did not know which happened when he reached for his stars, only that starlight blurred around them. Aziraphale yelped and grabbed him. Carina rose before them, its suns more brilliant than Crowley had ever remembered them.

“Angel…” he started, and only then did he start to feel the weight of what he’d done, how heavy his wings were, how his vessel ached with the effort. He’d forgotten himself. A demon couldn’t do the work of an angel.

His eyes slipped closed, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, the bright imprint of the nebula’s suns burned into his vision. He was only vaguely aware of the air rushing past, of Aziraphale calling his name. This time, when he fell, an angel was there to catch him.

Art by [Nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)

*

Sin, so the angels had been told, weighed a soul down and made it easier to fall. By Heaven’s lore, demons should be unbearably heavy. But Aziraphale hadn’t thought of any of this when Crowley’s wings sagged and vanished as his concentration waned. He’d had only the instinct of someone driven to save a beloved thing from falling and breaking.

So he caught Crowley.

Released from Crowley’s hold, the stars rushed away from them. Thundering force shook the sky and thrummed through Aziraphale’s wings. He stared down at Crowley, speechless and uncomprehending.

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on Crowley and descended through a bank of clouds and back to the city below. He expected to see crowds of humans staring at the sky. Hadn’t they seen the stars converge over London? Hadn’t they felt the force of them leaving? But as he settled on the roof of Crowley’s building, everything below hummed along at its mundane pace. No one noticed the sky.

Had Crowley shifted the sky just for the two of them to see? Had it been real? An illusion?

Crowley turned his head, mumbled something in his sleep. Aziraphale wondered if demons dreamed.

He briefly considered miracling the two of them down to Crowley’s flat but was nervous about using such a big miracle so soon after escaping Heaven’s wrath. Would it draw their attention still? Instead, he folded his wings neatly and dismissed them from this plane of existence. He’d do the human thing and take the stairs.

Only one person passed them, and Aziraphale gave them his most angelic smile. “Just had a hard night out drinking,” he said by way of excuse, and the human nodded heartily as if in sympathy and continued on.

The thing Aziraphale immediately noticed about the flat was that the air felt…wetter. As he nudged open the door to the bedroom, he remembered. The humidifier. He’d left it running while they were gone, and the air in the room was uncomfortably humid. He settled Crowley on the bed and turned off the machine.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, eyes half open, struggling to sit up.

“You should rest, dear,” said Aziraphale, hurrying back to Crowley’s side. He fussed with the bedcovers, but Crowley pushed them back.

“Did you see my stars, angel?”

“You shouldn’t have done—whatever it is you did.”

“Angel.” He gripped the collar of Aziraphale’s coat and pulled him down. “Did you see my stars?”

Aziraphale thought of another time he’d been nose-to-nose with Crowley and sighed, “They were beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

Satisfied, Crowley let him go and fell back into sleep.

*

In the seventies, along with the idea of talking to plants, Crowley had also learned about lucid dreaming. This was regrettably late considering his century-long nap during the nineteenth century, and he felt he’d wasted the time. He kept two books in his flat: _The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy_ and _You Are the God of Your Dreams_. The coauthors of the lucid dreaming book seemed oblivious to their chosen title’s double meaning which was endearingly human of them.

Well, he had three books now, if he counted the recent addition of _The Care and Keeping of Snakes, for the Modern Human. _He liked this title too, as Aziraphale was certainly not human and the hopeless opposite of modern.

He dreamed about Aziraphale now, and for the first time since he’d learned about lucid dreaming, he let the dream unwind from his unconscious without imparting any direction.

They sat at a table for two in one of the cramped bakeries Aziraphale liked to frequent. The air was cool and sugary. Aziraphale had talked Crowley into getting a slice of cake for himself, fretting over how Crowley never tried any of the scrumptious desserts while they were out.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t taste like heaven,” Aziraphale was explaining. “I mean, unfortunate for heaven. Everything is quite bland and colorless there. This cake, however, is delightful.”

Crowley looked down at the overlarge slice of angel food cake in front of him, then up at Aziraphale. “Logically, it wouldn’t taste like heaven. It’s _angel_ food cake, angel. It’d taste like, well, angels,” he found himself saying.

Aziraphale suddenly wouldn’t make eye contact and feigned interest in a couple who’d just approached the counter.

“There’s a reason I never get food when we’re out,” Crowley blurted. Aziraphale turned back to him. He thought he’d open his mouth to continue talking, but his jaw unhinged and his mouth stretched wide and he fit the entire slice of cake into his mouth.

Aziraphale uttered a little noise of surprised delight as if Crowley had performed a charming magic trick.

“You don’t think it’s disturbing?” Crowley somehow managed to ask clearly even though his mouth was full of cake. He rarely wanted to eat in public because chewing felt so unnatural and here was the dream playing with his anxieties.

“Why would I think it’s disturbing? I love everything about you, Crowley. I love _you_.”

His eyes watered. He thought he’d choke on the dream cake and discorporate in real life.

In his peripheral vision, the couple at the counter started towards them. He thought they’d take the table nearest to them and, irritated that his private moment with Aziraphale would be interrupted, glanced up with the intent of using a little demonic influence to steer them towards the farthest table. But when he looked up, he locked eyes with Beelzebub and Dagon who had both dropped their human disguises.

A fly buzzed over Aziraphale’s half-eaten cake, and Beelzebub loomed over the angel’s shoulder. “We know about your little trick with the holy water, traitor,” they said.

_Not this, not this, not this_, Crowley thought. Dark clouds of flies swarmed the room. Crowley tried to stand, his body moving in the terrifying slowness of dream-time while everything around him came on too fast. Clouds of flies obscured Aziraphale and the two demons. Aziraphale called to him for help, but the angel’s voice already sounded so distant. A cry built in his throat as he wrestled control of the dream, grasping for consciousness like a drowning person for air.

He screamed himself awake, his fear lengthening the angel’s name. He didn’t remember where he was. Only needed to know that Aziraphale was okay, that the dream hadn’t been some sort of premonition.

“I’m here, my dear.” The voice he needed was just beside him, all ethereal calm.

Yes, Aziraphale was to his right as always. Safe and whole. The only problem was that he was hazier than before, as if he and everything around him existed in a persistent fog. He opened his mouth to comment, but his breath settled into an exhausted hiss. He threw a hand over his eyes. Of course. The state of his eyescales was worse now. As he grounded himself in reality, he registered again the paperiness of his skin. He touched the mark on his cheek, let his fingertips rest there.

Aziraphale broke the silence first. “The skin there looks ready to come away.”

Crowley peeked through his fingers, and Aziraphale nodded to indicate the skin around the serpentine mark. He was grateful to the angel for not asking about the dream.

“The air feels nice,” said Crowley, forcing himself to sit up. “I guess your humidifier was a good idea.” He squinted at Aziraphale. “Is your bowtie undone?”

“Well.” Aziraphale put his hand to the loose ends as if considering retying it. “The air felt a bit damp when I carried you in.”

Now he noticed that the first two buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt were also undone. He’d folded his coat into a neat square at the foot of the bed. “Must have. You’re practically undressed.”

“You’re the one who scolded me for sleeping in my clothes.”

Aziraphale reached for his coat, but Crowley caught his hand. “I’m only teasing you, angel.”

They stared at each other. Aziraphale’s gaze drifted to Crowley’s cheek again. “Do you mind if I…?”

Something about the suggestion made Crowley clench his teeth. He didn’t mind Aziraphale’s touch. Okay, he _liked_Aziraphale’s touch. There hadn’t been enough of it in the thousands of years they’d known each other. But this was different somehow. More personal, even, than the time they’d spent in each other’s bodies. Crowley was hyperaware of his vessel now: the way exhaustion weighed on him, the scrape of dead skin against his clothes. Being in his body now, when he felt so fragile, was more unsettling than when he’d left it in Aziraphale’s care for a couple hours.

In all their years together, Aziraphale had never expressed interest in the mark until now. Sure, he’d caught him staring at it when he thought Crowley was distracted, but he’d never remarked on it.

He couldn’t make himself speak, so he nodded.

Aziraphale leaned closer and cupped Crowley’s face. The angel was so tender, but Crowley tensed again. Couldn’t make eye contact.

“Tell me how you moved the stars,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley smiled despite himself. “Tell me how you find your wings.”

“Isn’t it the same for you too? It just—well—I make them happen. I always sense them. They’re never really gone. I can’t quite explain.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Ah.”

“It’s like the stars are part of me. Even if falling means my ability to manipulate them isn’t what it was before.” He trailed off, then added, “I didn’t know. I wanted to try, but I should have known. I’m sorry.”

“They really were beautiful. You’re an artist.”

“Stop it,” Crowley groaned.

“It’s true.” Aziraphale traced Crowley’s cheekbone with his thumb. “It’s true.”

Crowley let himself lean into the angel’s touch. He would allow himself to feel safe, to feel valued and adored. This wasn’t an easy thing to allow oneself after being cast out of Heaven. He’d have to keep convincing himself. He’d have to learn. Meeting Aziraphale again and again across the ages had given him hope.

He put his hand over Aziraphale’s. “You don’t find any of this…snake stuff…upsetting?”

“Goodness, no. Why would you think I’m upset?”

“It’s—er, you’re an angel. Ethereal. Holy.”

“Would I have muddled through figuring out how to help you if I thought anything about your form was upsetting?”

“Y’know sometimes I was so nervous after meeting you that I’d start shedding within days. Like my body also had to process what had happened. What your looks meant. Analyzing every word to understand whether you were tiring of the Agreement. If you’d eventually reject it—me.”

“Crowley . . .”

“Whenever we’re together, I can’t help but feel the ways we’re different. Even more than usual. And it’s even more obvious now. I was just scared of how you’d react. Now I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you. That I didn’t trust you more. Especially after everything.”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t clearer about my feelings earlier.”

“No—”

“I am.”

“But—”

“Let me apologize. Please. Let me ask for forgiveness.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he said, but he couldn’t stop the shakiness that creeped into his voice. “Ask a demon for forgiveness?”

Blast these clouded eyes, he thought. He wanted to see Aziraphale’s face clearly, properly. This far into the shed, most things were barely better than vague outlines with softened impressions.

He thought he saw the angel grin. “Well, you did say I’d been a bastard.”

“It’s your best quality. I won’t forgive you for your best quality.”

“Well, then you must forgive me for something, dear.” He brushed his fingers over the serpentine mark, the first time he’d ever done so, and the tension in Crowley’s chest fully eased.

Crowley thought. “I pardon you for your sins against Harry the Rabbit and that poor unnamed dove you killed and revived eleven years ago. How’s that?”

“Exceptionally merciful and magnanimous.”

*

Crowley suspected that, had Aziraphale been born a human, he’d be the kind to rise dreadfully early in the morning. Up before the sun, having completed half the day’s tasks before anyone else was awake. He suspected this because Aziraphale was the kind of angel who was up before the sun, mostly because he was never asleep in the first place.

The next morning, he found the angel seated at the desk. He’d made himself comfortable in the throne as if it were his own and was poring over a book. Typical. As much as he re-read books, he must have committed thousands to memory. Tens of thousands. Sometimes he recited lines from out-of-print books and scrolls that had long crumbled to dust or been lost to fire, water, or mold. The inability to revisit each thing he’d ever read was perhaps part of what had prompted the opening of the bookshop. Time mercilessly consumed so much.

Other than the wine, the one thing in their lives that had gotten better with age was their relationship with each other.

Crowley didn’t even have to creep up on the angel. He was so engrossed in his book that he would have read on through anything short of a world-ending cataclysm. Crowley draped himself over the back of the chair to peer over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the book.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he whispered in the angel’s ear.

Aziraphale jumped, and the book nearly fell from his hands. “What do you mean?” he asked, twisting to get a look at Crowley.

Crowley tutted and covered Aziraphale’s eyes teasingly. “Don’t look at me yet. I have a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale repeated.

“A demon doesn’t just share his throne with anyone.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched thoughtfully.

“I’m saying that I like you.”

“Glad I’m likable.” He paused. “What’s the surprise?”

Crowley didn’t even have to focus in order to bring on the change. He’d spent so long repressing what felt natural to him that he just had to _un_-focus. One who’d spent their entire life in a human-shaped body might think it’d be horrible to suddenly lose their limbs and hair and height, to have their skeleton reduced to spine and skull, but this felt simpler to Crowley. Easy. Like slipping into silk pajamas after a long day in a stiff and structured suit. Coordinating so many appendages, remaining upright, remembering always how to properly put one foot in front of the other was exhausting. He’d never quite gotten the hang of a natural human gait even after all these centuries.

He looped himself over the back of his throne and across Aziraphale’s shoulder, nuzzling the angel’s ear with his nose. He snaked his tongue out, flicked it teasingly in the angel’s direction, and tasted the subtler notes of Aziraphale’s aura, something he couldn’t discern in his human form. The angel tasted like clouds and spring rain and golden light. Yes, that was the best way to describe it. Different qualities of light did have something like flavors to snakes. Some light was better for sunning than others. Aziraphale tasted like the soothing kind of light.

Aziraphale raised his free hand towards Crowley, and he slithered around the angel’s wrist, holding him tight as one might grasp the hand of a beloved person they’d feared losing for too long. The angel looked at the serpent, and what he saw was good.

Summer was ending, and on the cusp of the seasons, Crowley felt the opportunity for renewal as he’d never felt it before. When the old skin peeled away, Aziraphale would be the first person to see his new face.

Art by [Nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art for this story is by the wonderful [Ineffable_Nephy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffable_Nephy/pseuds/Ineffable_Nephy) (Twitter: [@prince_nephy](https://twitter.com/prince_nephy)).


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